


As You Wish

by Malapropian



Series: Tumblr fics [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Fluff, Good Peter Hale, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, disgustingly fluffy Peter, dislocated shoulder, pop culture references, subluxation, use of pain medication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 16:29:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5672659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/pseuds/Malapropian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles is hurt, Peter always knows just what to do. He's annoyingly perfect that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As You Wish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nezstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/gifts).



> Mar was having a bad, pain-filled day and requested some feel better fic. Who was I to say no? So have some self-indulgent, cotton candy fluff.
> 
> In keeping with the spirit of tumblr fic, this has been very lightly edited. (Thanks go to Toast and Apollo for giving it a once over before I threw it online). 
> 
> Once again, I wrote a fic, and Stiles is not underage. I don't even know myself anymore. This was my first time writing hurt/comfort, so sorry if this goes a little too fast.
> 
>  
> 
> **Regarding Stiles' injury:**
> 
>  
> 
> Stiles has a partially dislocated shoulder. Please go to the doctor if this happens to you. My shoulder does this a lot. I do a lot of ill-advised things when it pops out. I also take painkillers that aren't prescribed to me. Probably don't do that. Just don't do anything I do in regards to healthcare. The internet said that Lortab shouldn't have harmful interactions with Adderall, but I'm not a doctor or a pharmacist. If you have questions about that, please ask your doctor or pharmacist.

It didn’t seem like a big deal when Stiles kind of, sort of, wrenched his shoulder in the middle of his first summer back from college. It wasn’t the first time a _little problem_ in the Preserve had ended with him being injured. After they took care of business, he had Peter drive him over to the McCall house where Melissa scolded him, reduced his partial dislocation, and sent him on his way with dire warnings to take it easy for the next few weeks.

And he meant to take it easy. He would have. Except there were a few more little problems in the Preserve, and he hated not being able to drive or use the computer. Then maybe he offered to help his dad clean up the attic… nothing that the leftover Lortab couldn’t handle.

Still, with the way he’d ignored “take it easy”, it really shouldn’t have surprised him to wake up in excruciating pain. Rolling all the way out of bed in the attempt to get the pressure off of his right shoulder was just a special, agonizing bonus.

“God damn it!” he wheezed when he landed squarely on his hurt shoulder. He curled up on the floor and gasped for breath while spots danced in front of his eyes. “Oh,” he moaned through the first try at rotating his shoulder. “This is very not good.” His breath caught halfway through the motion, and he hissed. “Fuck, okay okay. Let’s stop moving. Let’s just lie here. Eventually someone will find my body. I’m sure they’ll give me a beautiful eulogy.”

It was just past ten. He could pull his fluffy, blue blanket down and try to make himself comfortable on the floor instead of eating, putting on clothes, peeing, or accomplishing his list of errands. He didn’t need to do any of that to live, right?

Right.

As nice as it was to bask in the sunlight coming through his curtains, Stiles was still on the floor. Worst of all, he had nothing to do. His phone was too far away to snag without getting up causing himself horrible pain. He’d already tried and failed to reach the lofty height of his headboard. Plus, he really should take some pain meds and get on with his day. He just had to scrape himself off the floor first. Baby steps.

This time, he slowed his roll and levered himself into a sitting position, clutching his right arm to his chest. Even that jostled the joint uncomfortably. He wasn’t looking forward to getting up and _doing things_ , but no one else was around to help.

With a grimace, Stiles continued holding his arm up and immobile as he grabbed the edge of the bed to pull himself onto his feet. That accomplished, he dug around for the sling Melissa had ordered him to wear. He’d been good for the first few days, maybe even the first week, but living in a sling was hard work. It made everything take twice as long if it wasn’t fucking impossible. Eating, driving, typing, using the bathroom… jacking off. _Everything._ He had deemed the sling more trouble than it was worth, and now his shoulder was about as fucked up as it had been that first night.

“Ah ha! Got you, you slippery little bastard.” Sling in tow, he stumbled off to the bathroom. 

After several awkward minutes of struggling through his usual morning routine with one-hand, Stiles emerged from the bathroom worn out and ready to collapse back into bed, but much cleaner than when he’d entered—he was even wearing the sling. His friends would laugh at his plight, but managing his own personal hygiene felt like a victory for the ages.

“Score one for Stilinski,” he muttered, gripping the railing. It would be the last straw if he tripped down the steps. With his luck, he’d fall on his shoulder again. “At least I can manage cereal and toast with one hand.”

Unfortunately, he’d overestimated his abilities to handle cereal and toast. It should have been a simple task but the sling complicated the entire affair. He had to pull out the bowl and spoon with one hand. Opening the cereal box and unrolling the plastic was a lot slower with one arm in a sling. He couldn’t just swing open the door and grab the milk with his free hand, and once he had it, he couldn’t hold it _and_ uncap it at the same time. Once he got it open and finished pouring, he had to set it down again to screw the cap on. By the time he shoved the milk jug back inside the fridge, his arm hurt, he hated everything, and he’d lost the desire to try buttering toast without both hands.

Eating with his left hand was a little awkward, but he’d trained himself to be semi-ambidextrous for the _important_ things. Today would be okay. He didn’t have to drive anywhere. (Thank fuck his class was online and not on campus.) He could use the tried and true hunt and peck method to type up his paper. He could order out for dinner instead of taking two hours to cook boxed macaroni. Stiles was an improviser extraordinaire. He could make this work, no sweat. He was a total one winged angel (minus the insane messiah complex).

“This sucks,” he grumbled, putting the spoon back in his bowl to free up his hand. He jabbed at his phone until his messages opened. No unread messages. It figured there’d be no sign of Peter when he actually needed his boyfriend around.

After enjoying his breakfast of champions, Stiles dumped his dishes in the otherwise empty sink. It wouldn’t matter if he let them sit for a day or two. He snorted. His dad had better not complain, not after the sinkful of dishes Stiles washed on his first day back.

He flexed his shoulder and grimaced at the pain. Typing was definitely not in the cards for him—not for the immediate future and maybe not even a week. The only faint, silver lining in this situation was that he’d written most of it by hand over the last few days.

Unafraid of falling up the stairs, Stiles utilized his skills at one-handed thumb typing on the return trip.

**Hey dad. Messed up my shoulder again. Might need to see doctor. Or Melissa. If you need me call.**

His phone buzzed several times before he made it to his door.

**_Take care of yourself. I’ll bring home dinner. Call me or Peter if you need help._ **

**_If you reinjured yourself by doing something with Peter, then please make up a lie I can believe in._ **

**_And wear the damn sling._ **

“Really, Dad?” Stiles pulled a face at the messages. “I don’t need to call my boyfriend for help. I’m an adult, and I find your lack of faith disturbing.” He dropped into his desk chair, popped open his little, orange bottle, and shook out a Lortab. He’d forgotten to bring a drink with him, but dry-swallowing pills wasn’t hard after years of practice. Soon sweet relief would be his, and with any luck, he’d be able to knock out his paper before too long. “I already wrote it,” he muttered as he pulled the notebook out of his backpack. “How long could this take?”

An hour later and Stiles was fresh out of fucks and ready to rip off the sling. “God damn it,” he snapped when he made another mistake. He’d only transcribed a small portion, and there was a depressing number of pages left. All he really wanted was to crawl into bed and watch something mindless—preferably with Peter, his favorite werewolf furnace. His shoulder would welcome being wrapped in something warm, and he wouldn’t say no to the pain-sucky thing.

But his paper wasn’t going to finish itself. “Fuck it,” he sighed and reached for the velcro release.

“Now sweetheart, you wouldn’t be taking off your sling so you can _type_ would you? I know you’re much smarter than that.”

Stiles whirled around at the sound of Peter’s voice. “Were you just standing there, watching me?” he gasped. “Oh my god, Peter. Give me a heart attack why don’t you?”

“You usually like it when I watch you.” Peter moved to stand by Stiles’ chair. He swept a gentle hand over Stiles’ right shoulder before easing his fingers beneath the stretched-out shirt collar. He hissed in sympathy as Stiles’ pain suddenly halved. “Well, you really managed to hurt yourself this time, little idiot. Aren’t you glad I’m here to take care of you now.”

“I was doing fine without you.” And maybe he hadn’t been entirely sure how he was going to manage the rest of his paper or much of anything. But still! His principles were at stake.

“Mm-hmm.”

“I was!” Stiles put his hand back on the keyboard. “I just need to finish this—Peter!” The room tilted as he was lifted—carefully—into Peter’s arms. “What the hell, dude!” 

Peter smirked down at him. “Hush. You’re going to lie in bed and rest like a good boy while I type your paper. I know you already wrote it instead of giving your arm a rest.”

“Oh.” Stiles blinked as he was set down on the covers and expertly divested of his clothes. In a matter of moments, he was settled under the blankets with ginger ale and another pain pill within reach of his left arm. “Uhh. Wow.”

“Darling, I’m beginning to feel less than appreciated.” The brief, tender look on Peter’s face said otherwise. “This is where you say ‘thank you, Peter’.”

“Thank you, Peter.”

“Go back to sleep, Stiles. I’ll wake you up for lunch.”

“I’m not a little kid. Pain meds don’t make sleepy,” he mumbled, drumming his fingers along with the rhythmic tap of the keyboard. “Just a little fuzzy.”

“Do you want to watch a movie downstairs? I know you like _The Princess Bride_ when you’re not well. It’s no trouble to set you up on the couch.”

Stiles found the energy to roll his eyes. “It’s not my legs that are broken, Peter.”

“Humor me.”

If Stiles squinted, then the mid-afternoon sun surrounded Peter in a soft, golden glow. On anyone else, he would have called it a halo. It was disgustingly attractive. “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you weren’t coming over until tomorrow.” Stiles shut his eyes when his brain betrayed him and kept throwing out words like ethereal and otherworldly and beautiful. 

“Maybe I missed your smiling company.” 

“Fat chance of that.” He swallowed the lump in his throat and watched Peter. Stupid, charming bastard. “Dad told you to come over and babysit—didn’t he?”

The tapping stopped. Childishly, he refused to open his eyes even after the bed dipped under Peter’s weight. “Stiles. You’re my boyfriend, my lover. You don’t need me to babysit you, and that’s not why I’m here.” 

“Whatever.” Peter was the worst. He couldn’t even have the decency to call Stiles out for being a whiny asshole.

“I’m going to overlook this behavior because you’re injured, but I’m here because I want to make sure you’re taken care of.” Stiles jumped at the feel of lips on his forehead. _Cheater._ How was he supposed to be upset when his boyfriend kept being too perfect? “You know I hate to see you hurt.”

The corners of his mouth trembled from holding back a smile. Peter always could charm him out of a bad mood. He’d been prepared to have a shitty day, and now Peter had ruined (fixed) everything. “Unless you did it.”

Peter chuckled. “Yes. Unless you’re fully consenting and I did it.”

He opened his eyes, feeling a little bit stupid for being so grumpy. “So you’re here to take care of me, huh? What kind of things fall under your job description?”

“Hmm. It might be easier to list what doesn’t.” Peter inched closer, trailing his mouth down Stiles’ jaw until their lips met in a kiss so sweet that it made his head spin. 

“So does that mean anything I need?” Stiles fluttered his lashes. It was ridiculous and overdone, but Peter always seemed to like his sad attempts at flirting. “I might need a lot of… _personal_ help.”

“Is that so, sweetheart?” A low rumble edged Peter’s words, growing more pronounced when Stiles licked his lips.

“Yeah.” Stiles’ hand drifted down to scratch his stomach, rucking up his shirt in a casual move. “Well, I have a lot of needs that might require your urgent attention.”

“Hmm yes.” Peter nodded. “That does look serious.”

“Peter.” Stiles peered up at him through lowered eyelashes. “My paper isn’t due for another day. Don’t you agree that it can wait?”

“Certainly.”

“I’m gonna need you to get in here and cuddle me. With kissing. Lots of kissing in lots of places.”

“As you wish.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, let me know if you saw horrible errors or need additional tags.
> 
> From what I can remember, I made references to Final Fantasy 7, Star Wars, and (obviously) The Princess Bride.


End file.
